The turning of the New Year invites reflection; and the thought occurs that time’s passage has, for me, been punctuated not with the ticking of clocks or turning of calendar pages but, rather, with all the different lovers I’ve known. “Lovers” might be too grand a word, for many of these men I’ve known, when I was escorting, for only an hour or so. And some I’ve come to know now only virtually, via the Internet.

Whatever I call them, they are someone else’s son, brother, father, boyfriend, husband even. It’s said that, no matter how intimate, you can never really, really know someone.

So I may not be privy to the day-to-day life of the man sitting across from you at the dinner table right now, but I know his secrets, things you’ll never know.

Take Bukkake Bob, for instance. That’s what I called him, and not just behind his back. I made him laugh (not just cum).

All he wanted to do was splash his hot, gooey ejaculate all over my face and titties. I didn’t have to do anything — not even suck — just kneel there, with my face uplifted and smiling expectantly. Sometimes I would wag my tongue (this was long before Miley Cyrus’s iconic move) to gesture how much I wanted it, craved it — to feel and taste the splash of his cum.

Once a week, like clockwork, we would meet to perform this ritual, sometimes in my apartment, sometimes in a motel room, sometimes in his huge SUV.

Then one evening, when I had on a lot of makeup (for I was to go on a fancy dinner date with another guy an hour later), I tilted my head ever so slightly just as Bob shot his wad. So most of what he shot ended up on the floor.

When a fan sent me a so-called Tribute Picture – my recent blog’s photographic image splattered with his cum – I found it a bit of a turn-on. No, not as much of a turn-on as he had no doubt felt (unlike my mystery man, I didn’t ejaculate!), but still…. Yes, I could sense my Big Clitty stiffening slightly against my fashionably tight-fitted leggings.

Why, I wonder?

I’m not being kissed, not being fondled, not even hearing sweet nothings whispered in my ear. Moreover, except for his digital moniker and Facebook image, I don’t even know who he is. Tall, dark and handsome? I haven’t a clue.

And yet…and yet…we’re now lovers of a sort, aren’t we, my admirer and me?

I guess back in the day of girlie magazines, the models fully expected the printed pages of their photographic poses to be splattered with sperm — splashed and smudged by readers ranging from teenaged virgins to dirty old men. But these girls never actually saw the physical result. Today everything is different….

Maybe the Tribute Picture is the natural, inevitable companion of the Selfie. Both shot alone, now together at last. True love in this digital age!

Like any rite of passage, the pleasure comes only after the pain. The pain of dreading it, actually doing it, getting through it. Then the pleasure of having done it — the most pleasing sense of accomplishment and acceptance that only this particular rite can bring.

I’m talking about my very first mammogram! Here are some totally random thoughts I’ll now share:

The nurses, technician and radiologists weren’t sadists. Instead, they were genuinely caring helpmates, as only other women can be. (Sorry if I’m being sexist!)

I’m so, so happy that I didn’t get implants until after a couple of years of estrogen therapy. If my implants were any bigger, I’m sure they would have burst during the procedure!

As my breasts were being flattened by the machine — first one and then the other — I encouraged my thoughts to wander — to distract me from the pain. What better thoughts than erotic fantasies!

So I imagined now in the room with me a lover (or maybe several lovers!) who normally fondled and kissed and licked and suckled my titties. But now he was using a machine to vicariously (and forcefully!) “caress” my breasts. It gave him intense pleasure to see just how tight my breasts could be squeezed!

Thinking this thought — do I dare admit? — I felt something getting ever so slightly hard in my panties. And I smiled.

“Tighter! Tighter!” he commanded. And the harder and harder I got.

Yes, I smiled. The medical personnel complimented me on how incredibly brave I was.

Take Our PollIs it because I was born a boy that I am now Super Rational Girl? What I mean to say is: Do I still put too much stock in reason as opposed to emotion — always being analytical as opposed to just listening to my newfound woman’s intuition? Who knows?

But whatever the explanation, my brain just won’t let me be the bimbo that I want to be! So as much as I found appealing the idea of actually joining a real-life harem, I quickly made a mental calculation of all the pluses and minuses:

On the plus side, was the money, obviously, that I had been offered. But perhaps even more enticing was the chance for the uniquely feminine camaraderie being just one of the harem girls — being pledged into a secret sorority, as it were!

A definite minus, however, was the undefined, open-ended nature of what I was getting into — would I be able to leave when I wanted, or was I potentially enslaving myself? Sex slave sounds sexy…until it’s not!

But before I even got to dress up in my harem costume, or whatever, I would have to have an orchiectomy, my would-be master had insisted. I’d still be a pre-opt Tgirl, but minus my two balls! This prospect, too, had its own balance sheet:

On the pro side, no longer would I have to take a daily testosterone blocker. Henceforth, my good, old faithful estrogen patch would be all I ever need.

On the con side, however, if I ever go through with the actual surgical sex-change, some of the best doctors prefer that the scrotum be fully in tact — providing more material to work with in fashioning a vagina.

And perhaps most important: I think a pre-opt Tgirl, like a candy bar, is just plain sexier with nuts! That’s yummy me!

Is it just me, or do all girls get the wildest, weirdest, most preposterous propositions all the time? Or maybe it just happens to Tgirls? Anyway, here’s the latest:

I’m sitting in a cafe in Florence with a girlfriend, and this Middle Eastern guy keeps staring at me. I guess my top was pretty low-cut, but really — believe me! — I wasn’t at all being purposely provocative. He wasn’t bad looking himself; and from his tailored outfit, you could tell he had money and taste. So he sends this other guy (butler, employee?) over to our table to ask if I would like “an audience.”

Is the guy some kind of royalty? Naturally, I’m intrigued. So I go over to his table. It turns out he knows who I am — has even read my blog! And quickly he gets to the point:

“I wish for you to be my guest.” He touches my hand and looks deeply into my eyes. Then he motions to his butler sidekick to hand me an envelop and explain to me all the necessary details.

The envelope, I can sense, has money inside — but the ungodly amount I could never have guessed. Stunned, I listen:

I have been invited to one of his palaces, where I will join other girls, perhaps 10. Since I am the only girl who is not born a girl (and am still pre-op), I will first have to have an orchiectomy! Not to worry: the castration will be performed by the very best surgeon.

“But if the prince is attracted to transsexuals like me, why must I be castrated?”

1. I need alone time. Your sexual needs are secondary to my need to sublimate my own considerable sexuality into my work. Be patient. The good time I’ll eventually show you will definitely be worth it!

2. When I dress for work at my laptop, my attire may be sexy lingerie or even a French maid’s uniform — not for your voyeuristic pleasure but because feeling ultra frilly and feminine is so fun, even inspirational, for me. Really. For I’m my very own muse.

3. You — and even your cock — might provide material for my work. I will write the truth, even (especially) if you’re a lousy lover.

4. I will flirt — and possibly even do a great deal more — with others in order to build a readership. When it comes to art, the means always justifies the end.

5. Let me chew and suck on a pencil or pen without your assuming I have unsatisfied oral urges. My brain is just searching for the perfect word. Really, I promise. I’ll suck you later.

6. When I’m not writing or reading, I’m probably making myself pretty for you. Thus can be justified the time and expense spent getting my hair and nails done or going to gym. Housework is another matter, however. A desk whose surface is clean often spells a cluttered mind. So don’t bug me about being messy, and I won’t nag you about your dried cum all over the bedsheets, in my hair, on my panties, or wherever…

….What if my latest fashion purchase was referred to as “sea-level-rise-induced-by-global-warming hotpants,” would I then begin to be taken more seriously? Not that I pretend to be a real intellectual or anything, but still….

Why don’t people take us shemales seriously? Is it because we’re perceived as boys who just want to be bimbos? The truest and most authentic of bimbos who’re only interested in and motivated by sexy, dolled-up clothes — and, of course, sex itself?

But “regular” transsexuals — those who follow through on SRS (sex reassignment surgery) — are often treated with the utmost dignity and respect. (That is, obviously, except among Philistines and homophobes!)

Not only are transsexuals like Jan Morris (the travel writer and essayist) and Jennifer Finney Boylan (the English professor and author) greeted with respect, even awe — but also are considered intellectually serious thinkers worth paying attention to.

Part of the reason, of course, is that shemales are often associated with porn and prostitution. While I personally have never done porn, I readily confess to having worked as an escort (just a euphemism for prostitute!) But getting paid for sex (or often simply my companionship) did not deter my intellectual curiosity. To the contrary, I read more now — and am better-informed — than I’ve ever been. And each of my clients was like a richly nuanced character in the very greatest novels and/or a deeply layered case study in the most intense Freudian psychoanalysis.